


All Hallows Eve

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Developing Romance, F/M, First Kisses, Halloween, Haunted Houses, The Full Moon is a bewitching thing, The Headless Horseman (folklore)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the full moon hangs high in the sky, strange things abound with those on the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hallows Eve

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, because I just can't leave these two alone, here's another one. I'm going to label this as a side-dish to the "Tiger, Tiger" series. It's also an excuse to write something Halloween-themed, since the holiday is right around the corner. Please enjoy. :)

Mrs. Agnes Brown was a woman of old-school principles and strict mannerisms. A proud no-nonsense madam, of modest upbringing which had engrained in her the unyielding concepts of discipline and proper demeanor, to present herself as a true lady. She had been unlucky in love, most would say, but she herself considered the men unlucky, that they’d have to settle for anything less than a proudly-raised lady. For twenty years, she’d dedicated herself to the trying life of both schoolteacher and nanny-for-hire, until Gotham’s education system began to suffer from improper funding and the private schools decided it was their right to be selective about hired staff. Fortunately, the governing board for the child services program had taken note of her impressive resume and exceptional work ethic, and placed her in the role of governess for the Southside Girls’ Home.

For a group home, the only place left for underprivileged, misused, and otherwise unwanted young ladies, the title of “governess” was rather bold and presumptuous; this was hardly an upstate establishment, but Mrs. Brown spared nothing in how she executed each day’s duties, and the title was fitting. She roused the girls each morning, ensured every bed was made and everyone freshly bathed, dressed appropriately, and ready to set about the day’s activities. Education, for a former schoolteacher, was an essential part of the daylight hours, and she personally saw to it the girls were enrolled in the best school available for the funding allowed, and all assignments completed without fail. 

This being said, rewarding behavior was not Mrs. Brown’s particular forte. Good work, so far as she was concerned, was its own reward. Candy, sweets, and all other assorted treats were unnecessary indulgences; earning a high school diploma and reaping the rewards of a proper education were satisfactory in and of themselves. Anything else was sure to simply spoil the child, and especially girls, who were already prone to unfortunate episodes of entitlement.

Among her girls was one of particular concern: little Iris, the youngest among the lot, and yet most certainly already a problem. This girl came from wealth and privilege, and from the moment she’d arrived on the doorstep in a lace-embroidered dress, hair tied in a silk ribbon, and carrying handsome leather luggage, Mrs. Brown had known this girl would be trouble. And, of course, she was never wrong.

In the social scene, Iris was a dreadful recluse, keeping to her room unless ordered to join her fellows in the day room. It was simply embarrassing, to have someone so young be expressly rude to the others, thinking them beneath her, as though there was any social hierarchy to be observed. She responded to lectures with barely a blink and absolute indifference, never paying heed to given warnings about how a family would never take her in if she displayed such brazen defiance and arrogance. She would sit through the lecture, and then promptly leave as soon as it appeared to end. And, naturally, she didn’t heed a word of it.

In the classroom, her behavior was insufferable; not a week went by Mrs. Brown was not privileged to a private conversation with teachers and the headmaster of Gotham’s most elite private academy. The school board had elected to take Iris in, on a scholarship, for her exemplary test scores, and that, Mrs. Brown was quite convinced, had been their mistake. The girl’s ego was simply being fed, and her belief of being greater than the rest would only grow worse. She constantly argued with her teachers, failed to adhere to the given assignments, and showed no remorse for it. And, in a most brazen display of defiance, she had taken to disappearing for great lengths of time, after school hours, without warning and without any explanation upon return. The girl had clearly never been disciplined in her life, and this was what happened when unruly children were allowed to go about life without anyone to correct their behavior. It was only a matter of time before the girl got herself in real trouble.

***

Halloween was always an affair in Gotham: festivities filled the streets far and wide, parties carrying on well into the night, lights flooding the city…all around, a grand celebration for the holiday. Mrs. Brown sternly disapproved, and she most certainly had an opinion on bringing the girls into the matter. These girls were undisciplined enough; to allow them the chance to partake in such uncivilized frivolity was only a recipe for disaster. But, year after year, she was overruled. The governing board wanted the girls to socialize and have fun. It was an absolutely terrible idea.

By popular vote, she was to take the girls to a haunted house, located in the heart of downtown. There were rumors about the building itself, that it was chosen for the real specters dwelling within, waiting to snatch up a victim. Superstitious nonsense, the lot of it, Mrs. Brown declared, but it was the most sought-after location to start the evening’s festivities. For some reason, ghost stories sparked interest, and the girls were simply delighted to seek out the unknown.

Iris, once again, had been intolerable. Finally, socializing, but only to bring scores of her fellow females in a tight circle, all of them listening with rapture and held breath as the little girl wove a tale of one particular ghost. A spirit of old American lore, an apparition known to frequent Halloween night in search of a head to replace the one he lost long ago. Again, nonsense, and Mrs. Brown had been quite irate with the girl stirring everyone up, a week in advance of the holiday in question. She was giving the girls nightmares, for goodness’ sake.

“It would serve you quite well,” she finally says, on Halloween eve, glowering at the insufferable child, “if this horseman would snatch you up. Perhaps then you’d learn a lesson about your wagging tongue!”

Iris blinks. “Perhaps he will.”

***

Halloween night arrives with an eruption of noise, right outside the front door: citizens declaring the time for celebration right at the seven o’clock hour. With lips tight, Mrs. Brown assembles the girls and takes a careful roll, to ensure each one is accounted for. Iris is among them, not in definitively in costume, but her black hair, pale skin, and the black dress makes her appear something from the era of Bela Lugosi and Vincent Price. Her hair has been artfully arranged, tied with a little ribbon, and if Mrs. Brown had a thought to support such suspicion, she might think the girl was looking to meet someone tonight.

Well, perhaps she is, or perhaps she isn’t. Either way, there will be none of that. The girl is exactly that: a girl, fourteen years old, and she’ll be having no late-night rendezvous.

The old house is open and ready for the group, as they join the other spectators to partake in this ridiculous event. It’s dark, reeks of mothballs and dust, and the lighting effects are ridiculous. The girls, of course, all a-twitter with Iris’ woven tales of ghosts and wandering spirits, huddle together, eyes wide and looking over every corner, apparently waiting for something to jump out and take hold of them. Mrs. Brown keeps one eye on them, and the other on Iris, who appears distantly intrigued, perhaps a little amused with her fellows’ fussing, but otherwise—and this is most certainly concerning—disappointed.

_Now just what,_ Mrs. Brown thinks to herself, _could that child be disappointed with?_ The lackluster design of the house? The absence of any real ghostly figures? The general idea of partaking in such festivities? Surely the latter; a girl with no interest in social gatherings can only be disappointed in forced participation. Nothing to be concerned with.

One girl, one of the several in a huddled mass, screams, arms flailing wildly. “Something touched me!” she wails. “It tried to grab me!!”

Her declaration sets off a dreadful scene; the other girls react similarly, flinching at the billowing curtains, a sudden creak in floorboards, a flickering of the lights. And then, two more begin screaming about a shadow, slipping around the corner, drawing close and then disappearing as though it was never there. Three others begin wailing about eyes, watching them in the darkness, and then someone else starts yelping about a breath on her neck. The entire matter is just embarrassing to watch, takes nearly fifteen minutes to settle, and once they’re huddled together again, still trembling violently, Mrs. Brown exhales, brushes her hair back to perfection, and takes roll. The girls are not cooperative, fearful of being snatched away, should they dare speak. _Ridiculous_ , she scoffs, and elects to take count herself, without anyone having to announce themselves. Finally, nearly half an hour longer than it should have taken, the roll is complete and everyone is accounted for.

Except one.

“Miss DeLaine.” She calls out, scanning the room, the stairs, and what little she can see of the upstairs level, with a growing scowl. “Young lady, this is not humorous. Show yourself at once.”

Nothing. Silence, and no sign of her. She calls, again, and again, with no response. This is quite untoward, and thanks to the lackluster discipline program, she’ll be denied the chance to give Iris a proper paddling when they get home. At the very least, she’ll think of some fitting punishment. Bed without supper should—

“Mrs. Brown!” one voice shrieks, a hand pointing frantically at the floor. “The floor! On the floor!!”

She entertains the renewed hysteria with an irritated huff, following the shaking motions, and there, strewn without care on the floor, is a black silk ribbon. There are a few strands of inky hair still clinging to silk, a silent declaration of its former owner.

“The Horseman!!” the girls cry out, clinging to each other. “The Horseman took her! He took her head!”

***

The flat soles of black shoes are inaudible, even on aged wooden floors, and so she runs without sound, like a ghost, like a haunting spirit, hair streaming behind her like ribbons whipping in wind, eyes alight, sparkling with delight, as she follows the path of guiding shadows and their beckoning master, the one who had summoned her only moments ago with fingers carving through her hair, freeing black locks from their bindings, and casting a whisper meant only for her ears. 

“ _Moy tigr_!” she breathes as outstretched arms, much stronger than her own, catch her in their grasp and bring her into a tight embrace of shadows and pale clutching fingers. Her fingers find the thick material of black cotton, clutch urgently, and she buries her cheek into a welcoming shoulder, inhaling deeply. Gunpowder, smoke, and the faint tinge of something metallic, clinging to not only her ghost’s very tangible figure, but his aura, his presence, fills her senses. “I thought you had forgotten.”

“I never forget you, sweet girl.” He croons, a tiger’s purr in her ear, a kiss to her brow. “Especially not this very special day.”

She tucks a tiny smile into his lapels. _A very special day_ …never before was today something to warrant such sentiments. She could scarce remember having her parents declare this day as such, let alone host a party or celebration. The day was simply another day, nothing of worthy of attention. But now…

“Come with me.” He murmurs, settling her down to the floor once more. “I have something for you.”

_A surprise_ , his eyes promise, and she nods agreement. He has never failed her, and he has never broken his first promise: that he gives very good surprises. She has grown to like surprises, if they come from her strange protector, the one clothed always in black, living in her shadow, and at her side when she needs him most.

The streets are busy, bustling with excitement and noise; figures adorned in costumes, ranging from the grotesque to explicitly provocative, fill every crevice available, from asphalt to concrete. Their eyes are for the skies, for the lights suspended above, for a particular destination, but never for the young girl weaving her way through with patience and demure stride. Were they to look, they would see a child alone, without parental supervision or accompaniment; they would not know, nor could they, she is never alone. There is a tiger in her shadow, always watching, always hidden until the moment when he must appear and strike. She can feel his eyes, on the city, on the people, and always on her.

As she reaches the street’s end, a hand ghosts along her shoulder, nudging to the right, and she follows the silent instruction. It takes her away from the noise, from the gathered masses, from the city itself, and to the outskirts. Here, old farmland, long-since abandoned when its owners realized nothing of profit can grow in Gotham’s soil, is utilized for pumpkin patches and artificial corn mazes. Further, onward, she is taken, negotiating her way through the field, where paths have not been paved. The corn scratches at her skin, pricking even through the clothes, but she has been directed down this path, and she will not stray. Her tiger is there, keeping her safe, and she will trust him.

A clearing appears, without warning, as though the corn suddenly flattened by God’s own hand, and she steps free of thick stalks and into an unobstructed view of ink-black skies, diamond scatterings of starlight cast at random, and the moon, full, bright, a silver pool of radiance. It is so very large tonight; she almost thinks she could reach out, with eager fingertips, and brush a touch to celestial power and beauty.

“Beautiful…” she breathes. From a lonely bedroom window, back within the city, smog and pollution blots out any glimpse of moonlight, of the beauty and simple wonder that is the sun’s silver counterpart. Here, the sky is clear, untainted, unspoiled, black velvet heavens spattered with tiny stars and the moon. There is no sight in the world to compare with this, she thinks, with the wonder of a child and the solemn wisdom of a young woman. 

Two hands rest lightly upon her shoulders; she reaches up, claims them for her own, and tucks herself within the welcoming hold of strong arms, large hands, and pale fingers adorned with silver rings. She traces each one with a thoughtful touch. They reflect the moon in sharp bursts of light, dancing across her cheeks and fingertips. _Spirits_ , she thinks to herself with a smile, _Spirits of light, daring to appear even when darkness reigns._

She wonders if this will always be their world. This strange, obscure, inexplicable place where dark and light not only meet, but embrace as lovers would.

“They say a full moon is bewitching.” She murmurs, setting her cheek to his sleeve. “That it casts a spell over all beneath its touch, and once the enchantment is set, men and women alike become something entirely different. Something, and someone, utterly not themselves. Do you believe it is true, Victor?”

“I think,” he pulls her a little closer; she nuzzles deeper into his embrace, “people become something and someone utterly not themselves every day, of every week, for various reasons. The full moon’s bewitchment is simply an excuse people use to justify their actions, when they can, and one night a year, they let themselves run rampant, unchecked and wild as dogs, just because the excuse is there to be exploited.”

She shakes her head, a quiet sound of affectionate amusement passing her lips. “You take the mystique out of it all, my tiger.”

“I do know something else about the moon, though.” He says; she can hear the smirk, evidence of his agreement to her statement, beside her ear. “It’s much easier to see, like this.”

His arms pull back, and she feels him lowering to the ground, gently coaxing her to follow, until she rests upon the cool, dry earth, and he is the throne upon which she reclines: arms and legs encasing her, keeping her close, keeping her safe, and his chest her supporting structure. She can feel his heart beating, softly, smoothly, against her back. A short distance from her ear, his pulse beats at the same delicate pace. It is almost a song.

“Will this change, my tiger?” she murmurs, after several pleasant moments of silence, “If I am taken from that place, if they send me to the university…will this change?”

“Don’t underestimate me, sweet girl.” He murmurs, kissing her temple for a lingering moment. A thrill shudders up her spine, warmth trickling through veins, and she leans back, closer to him, closer to that heart beating a beautiful song for her to hear. “I will always find you.”

“Promise me this?”

Long fingers slip beneath her chin, delicately redirecting her gaze from moonlight to blue eyes glimmering sharp, burning bright in the night. “Always.” He whispers. _I will always find you_ , his gaze adds, with fire, _I will always be there. They can’t separate us._

His touch doesn’t waver, shift, or falter; he draws nearer, close enough that she can feel the soft wisp of warm breath, and then the press of lips to her cheek, brushing the soft line of her mouth. Were he only a hint more to the right, or if she should dare tilt her head accordingly, his lips would be upon hers. 

She most certainly is not brazen enough to make the attempt, not with lacking skill and awareness plaguing such fantasies, but she is not the child she once was. She is becoming a woman. One day, perhaps sooner than she can imagine, she will be a woman, and then she might know better. But for now, she doesn’t need the scandalous experience of her fellow females. She is grateful for it, actually. Such indecency would ruin this, tarnish it with some crude display. She draws a steadying breath, waits for him to draw back, but not with great distance, and tilts her head upward.

His cheek is warm, the line of his mouth a soft indent beneath her lips; the metallic aroma which clings to his clothes is more faint, less distinct here. There is something else, something clinging to his skin, perhaps even laced within his cells, that she can’t identify. But she will always remember it as his, unique to him, never to be replicated or imitated, not with the same purity.

_A kiss_ , she whispers in silence, with eyelashes fluttering closed, senses greedily clutching to this moment, engraining it deep within her memory, to be cherished forever and never forgotten. _My first kiss…_

In the bathroom mirror, she stares for a long moment, fingertips ghosting the imprint of his lips there, at her cheek, a breath away from claiming her lips for his own. She will always see that imprint; even without a mark to betray its existence, she will always see it. And she will remember, with an accompanying thrum of her heartbeat, this night, that moment, and that kiss. 

She will look back upon her fifteenth birthday, in later years, when they have exchanged far more than chaste gestures, and her lips have learned his kiss time and time again, and she lies in his arms, skin cooling in darkness, moonlight treading innocently across the bedroom floor, and she will know that was the moment she fell in love with her tiger in the night.


End file.
